The hard on affair
by sweetness4theheart
Summary: It all started because of one little hard-on. Not that Harry's hard-on was little mind you, it was big, very big and uh, manly. Full of manliness.  Anyway.  The point is that Harry got a hard-on and then he hit Draco Malfoy in the face. . . with his fist
1. Trollin baby

A/N: Yep, there are pairings in here, loads, and gayness, bisexualness, straightness, otherness and, of course, extreme wackiness and trolling and adventure, hard ons, chamber pots and a complete disregard of important parts in the seventh book. It will also have adventure and a plot line, somewhere, maybe, eventually? (cause I can't ever get away from plot lines. Plotbunnieseverwhere)

This is my first Harry Potter fic. Enjoy.

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><p>Trollin baby<p>

So, like, one day Harry Potter hit Draco Malfoy in the face. Like seriously. A big wham, bam, thank you you-prissy-looking-veela-mam cause now I have a hard on. Or maybe he already had the hard one. And that was why he hit said prissy-looking-veela-man.

In the face.

If you haven't got that by now.

Anyway, the point is, said Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, golden boy of the whole world (the muggles just didn't know) and sex god incarnate (have you _seen_ his hair in the third movie? Not that there's a movie, because Harry's life isn't fictional and based in-between sheets of paper that millions of trees died for) had hit Draco Malfoy in the face.

Because he was hard.

And that was obviously Draco's fault. I mean, Malfoy's, cause nothing means bitterness and hatred and unresolved sexual tension like calling someone by their last name. It's what all the rivals-later-turned-lovers do these days.

"What the hell Potter?" Case in point. See, he said Potter here. And no, there wasn't a little bit of hurt in these words, apart from the physical pain that forcing bone to go a way it should not go does to one.

"No Malfoy, what the hell to you. Just what the hell," Harry said, well, mumbled, stumbled, did something weird to his words because Harry can be quite ineloquent and retarded when he speaks. It's sort of cute. Like those worn teddy bears with the button eye only attached by string. Maybe that's why Voldermort wanted Harry so much, maybe he just liked fixing those lonely, broken bears (and then breaking them again so he could spend all that time fixing them up once more.)

It might also have been anger (and Harry does have some serious anger issues that he bottles up) that made Harry's voice go all high pitched.

Or the raging hard-on.

Whatever.

So Harry Potter decked Draco Malfoy in the face, they squabbled, everyone was shocked, confused, slightly turned on (Draco, cause that boy had to be masochistic in some way with the way he kept chasing –stalking- Harry everywhere,) and walked/ran away, fleeing out from the Great Hall.

"Harry," two well-loved voices called out, one scandalised and worried, the other half congratulating Harry but wondering if he'd get to sock Draco one too if he came after his best mate.

Ron felt a little put out that he was the only one of the golden trio to not have punched Malfoy in the face. He really wanted to.

Just once.

"I'll get you for this Potter," Malfoy – not Draco – threatened, but it was his usual threat and everyone sort of brushed it cause Draco's a bit of a veela-faced-wimp and was too busy trying to stem the blood (and hurt) that was pouring off of him.

Crabbe or Goyle (the not-dead one okay?) loomed over Malfoy, trying to seem helpful without actually helping his boss and Draco shrugged the big boy off, bypassing Pansy who was open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the fact that Harry's hand could have well indeed hit her in the face.

Draco stalked out of the Great Hall, following the dramatic exit of Potter, Weasley and Granger with a whoosh of his robes.

Cause robe whooshing is a Slytherin thing and Draco's really good at Slytherin things.

He'd practiced every night in his first year.

Snape sneered from his seat up high, turned on (yep, he'd been in that category) and feeling slightly proud of Draco's whoosing abilities. It took a lot of effort and time to pull it off and one day, maybe, Snape thought tearily, Draco might even get to his level.

Snape's sneer turned to this freaking sort of smile which was more like a twitching leer.

Hah, as if.

"Well students, it seems an explanation is in order," Dumbledore interrupted the quiet, sagely and old and ready to give advice as everyone turned to him. He smiled, eyes twinkling merrily and all waited with baited breath, even the ghosts, who didn't breathe so they just waited with baited nothingness.

It made them feel lonely and dead. Which they, in fact were.

"Let's start desert."

Magically, desert appeared upon all the tables, Neville yelping in surprise as the fork raised to his mouth, chicken on it, was instead weighed down by a large piece of caramel tart. Similar responses echoed throughout the room.

And Dumbledore smiled serenely, sitting back down (though no one knew when he had stood) and went to his own desert of lemon drops. He popped one in his mouth and started up a conversation with the stilted, sexual-repressed for the gay man Professor McGonagall.

Seamus Finnigin shuddered.

Dumbledore's troll face was going to haunt his sleep again.

The Eighth year, as it had so rightfully been dubbed, was a welcome to one Harry James Potter. A relief because it was familiar and safe (only person that could really ever break in was little old Riddle with an army of fanatics behind him because he was the only one batshit insane to try.) So when that letter had come from Professor Dumbledore, who was in fact, not dead, but had fake-died (Snape was surprised too) so he could leave everything up to Harry, Harry was comforted.

Dumbledore had thought Harry, you know, needed a _boost _with his Voldermort-hate_._ Not that he didn't already have enough reasons to kill Voldermort, but good ol' Dumby added the 'killing-the-only-person-that's-ever-been-like-a-father/grandfather/crazy Uncle (no wait, that's Sirius)/dude to the list.

_Just to make sure._

And he'd really thought he was going to die, but then, in his comatose state, where he'd lingered in that coffin for like a whole school year (because they're adventures always started at the beginning of the school year and finished at the end), without air but surviving cause he was Dumbledore, he'd miraculous been healed.

Of all of his afflictions.

His hand was all normal coloured now. But he was still sagely and wise and stuff.

So Dumbledore had stepped out of his coffin, that was fortunately above ground as had been stated in his will, and which had no lid because someone else had taken it off (weird.) He'd gotten up, skipped over to his ruined castle, kicked a random evil doer lying on the ground because nu-uh, they did not just do that to his Hogwarts and walked in happily to see lots of dead people, a dead Voldermort (in his snake-face hah!) and lots of people crying/celebrating.

Then Harry had seen him, stepped out of Ginny's embrace and made gold-fish motions with his mouth.

Cause Dumbledore was _alive._

Dumbledore had waved happily, pushed his moon glasses up and said. "So Harry, it seems you have defeated Lord Voldermort."

Then he held out his arms, troll face in place (not that he'd planned to live but hey, whatever worked, there was probably a prophecy about this lying in the smashed remains of the Department of Mysteries, which hadn't been cleaned up yet) and Harry had run over to him, tears majestically slipping off his face like diamonds and his beautiful green eyes shining wetly behind overlarge glasses that never seemed to fall off and could easily be replaced by more battle-friendly contacts.

Or as my friend said, if they're in a wizarding world and can heal broken bones with a flick of the wrist, why don't they just heal Harry's eyesight?

I had been shocked, horrified and proven wrong in my belief that there weren't _that_ _many_ inconsistencies in the Harry Potter Series – I mean his life story.

Damn plot holes, as a writer I know how annoying they are. How _sneaky._

So they'd hugged and cried and Remus had limped out as well, somehow miraculously saved by his werewolf powers that totally put him in a death-like state too. Tonks was still dead though, unfortunately (I like her but someone needs to stay dead for this story, like just one.) And we're not going to go on to how Harry saw all of them when he was marching off to die because he just did okay.

He just did.

Cause they were either dead or half-dead. Or trolling.

Cause Dumbledores a troll.

But yeah, Harry got the letter, asking all the seven year students back for an eighth year (the ones still alive anyway) and Harry had said yes. Because he needed to take his N.E.W.T.S again and he needed to get better at potions without cheating.

To be an Auror you had to get pretty good grades in potions and Harry really wanted to be an Auror. That or a flamingo dancer.

Pink just really worked with him you know? Especially around the thighs. He could probably get a job as Dumbly Dores exotic dancer. Cause Dumbly Dores likes young boys.

Not cause he was gay, cause being gay doesn't make you a paedophile but because he's Dumbledore and Harry's Harry.

So Harry went back to school, with Ron and Hermione and a Ginny who was always trying to help (which is nice but she should realise by now that Harry has obvious issues with people trying to help him) and everyone else.

But there wasn't room for them in the common rooms and they really couldn't deal with anyone younger than them, so they got their own tower.

For all the eighth years.

It had been dubbed the 'heroes of the wizarding world tower' by the young ones, HOTWWT for short and just called 'tower' by the eighth years, though Seamus and Dead Thomas had created some spectacular names that only Neville and Luna had seemed interested in. Pansy had kept quiet, cause she'd tried to give Harry away to Voldermort and even if she'd been panicking with all the dead people and the fact that her mother was dead, yeah no. No one was going to let that go.

Draco still wasn't talking to her. Though really, he'd sort of done worse. Hypocrite.

So they all lived in tower, together. The Hufflepuffs (does anyone know the name of a surviving eighth year Hufflepuff? I got nothing), the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws (again, who?) and the Gryffindors.

And only one of the Parvati twins cause the other one died. No one knows which one she is though so it doesn't really matter. She was just there to remind everyone how sad it was when a twin died, which reminded them of Fred. And now that was sad.

Cause Fred was Fred. Or maybe it was George that died. Damned twins.

So they lived together. All together. With issues and angst and the memories of the past war lingering over their heads.

And Draco Malfoy wouldn't talk to Harry Potter. Not a peep, not a wordthreatinsultapology. Nothing. Not even for his wand back (which Harry had broken cause it was EVIL.)

And Harry wasn't really talking either, only really to Teddy, Remus' baby, which couldn't do anything other than gurgle though maybe that was why Harry liked him so much. And he hugged Dumbledore (who he loved slash sort of hated for essentially setting him up to die even if it was for the greater good), sneaking up into his office at night and curling around the old man who conjured a bed out of nowhere.

Completely PLATONIC.

So they weren't talking and they were angsting and everyone was horribly traumatised over the war so the Slytherins segregated themselves and the Ravenclaws read books and the Hufflepuffs tried to cook lots of food and make everyone happy because they weren't happy either. And the Gryffindors circled around Harry and protected him.

And that's how it went, for the first two months. Plus Harry avoiding his zealous fans and the media.

And then Harry Potter punched Draco Malfoy in the face and Draco ran off and cried. After his robe whooshing.

And this is where the story starts people.

This is where it starts.

With trollin baby~


	2. He was a magical fire

A/N: I finally realised it. I've gotten at least one review in nearly every story I've written saying that my grammar sucks, which isn't actually true and I couldn't find what they were talking about when I went over my writing. But I figured it out.

I'm Australian peoples. It means I spell 'Mom' like Mum and 'arse' like ass. Colour has a u, lots of my words have a u, so figure that out before you leave me a huge reviewing saying that I don't know how to spell. (Or I'll trolololol you, like I did to person-who-knows-that-I-mean-them.)

Learn how to read where it says Australia on my profile.

P.S Thank you anonymous reviewers. Usually I always send a personal message but none of you guys have an account so my response is at the bottom.

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><p>He was a magical fire<p>

"Harry what happened?" Hermione exclaimed, jumping in the air, doing a triple-flip and landing gently on the cushion of the seat with her legs crossed and bouncy hair still . . . bouncing (it did that, sometimes Ron couldn't look away. He'd told Harry plenty of times, fearfully, curious and conspiratorially that he thought it was _alive._)

Harry brushed closed fists over his eyes, getting all those beautiful, diamond encrusted tears off his cheek and onto another piece of skin. They glittered on his fists, dripping down.

If old Mrs. Malfoy (hiding in France at the moment) saw those shining drops of diamond, she'd probably get a hard-on (she really liked diamonds. Really. How do you think her husband convinced her to work for he-who-totally-got-owned-by-a-kid-twice.)

But we aren't mentioning hard-ons. Or thinking about them.

Cause they're dangerous.

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about it," Harry cried which was a normal reaction because, as we all know, in both reality and Harry Potter World (which is real) alike, Harry has issues.

Some of those issues involve talking to people. About his feelings. Harry's not good with feelings.

He has them, he just can't quite communicate them. Probably because of his muggle relatives (who have the emotional range of a teaspoon) and all his mumbling and stumbling and cute hair flicks.

"Mate," Ron added in, conveying manliness and understanding in that one word. He was standing awkwardly beside Hermione, looking like he'd just been told he'd taken those valentines chocolates all over again and had confessed his love to the chick who'd tried to drug Harry. She's not important, she's just a stalker.

(She's outside Tower right now, licking up the tear drops left to dry on the stone floor. It's creepy, we're going away from this scene now.)

"I'm sorry, I just, I got upset."

The fire popped and sizzled and just generally did fire-like things. He'd been doing it for a quite a while, since 1437 (his predecessor had been hit with an ice spell by one Kanterberry Bucklace, an idiotic boy with a small mind and even smaller attention span.) He was a magical fire. He put a lot of effort into it.

Okay, away from the now-gendered fire.

"Well obviously Harry, you hit Draco." Smart, confident and easily rubbing circles on Harry's back, Hermione kicked Ron in the back of the knee, smiling gently as Ron collapsed and fell back on the seat.

Ron twittered some complaints and made awkward faces when Hermione hinted (quite obviously, Harry was crying not blind) that Ron should rub Harry's back as well. Ron, realising how much Hermione's control over his actions had increased because of their burgeoning relationship, did so.

Harry laughed, stopped crying and manned up. Cause it's what Harry did. He manned up. It was like, his thing.

He just wished his lower bit hadn't manned up before, he wouldn't be in this situation then.

"Would you like to tell us why?" Hermione added, not even glancing at Ronald who was poking the fire with the . . . poker (as it is so aptly named) because Ronald had a very short attention span, as Hermione and Harry knew very well.

Harry sniffled once more, blinked and apologized.

"Don't apologize mate. It's his fault, the bloody prat," Ron said, waving the poker around, spreading ash and hot coal all around the room. Lucky it was charmed to be fire-proof from years ago when a Gryffindor who was probably some relation to a Weasly had accidentally conjured a dragon and burnt down half the tower, even though there was no reason for them to be in this tower since it had pretty much been abandoned. Or maybe that was why he'd thought it was a great place to conjure a dragon.

"Ronald, how do you know that?"

It didn't matter. It was always obviously a Malfoy's fault and not Potters.

"What, are you defending him?"

Hermione glared, hair bristling (_alive I tell you_.)

"No, but he is different now, we all know that."

Ron scowled, poked the fireplace with his poker some more and Harry laughed.

"Harry? What's funny?" They both asked.

Harry brushed fingers through his luscious locks, fixed up his glasses and sighed happily. "Nothing, I'm just so happy we can be like this. After all of it."

The mood went sombre, the fire popped, crackled and hissed at Ron who was absently poking it and Hermione hugged Harry.

"Yes, I'm so happy too," she whispered, kissing her friend on the head. Ron watched, awkward, jealous and slightly turned on (not that he'd ever tell Harry that cause they were friends and he loved Hermione.)

Harry hugged her back, arms encircling her, nose pressed against her neck, smelling her sweet scent and the pumpkin juice that she'd been drinking.

Now Harry didn't like pumpkin juice. It was _evil_, it was _vile. _And no, even if he drank it in the boo- his past years, that doesn't matter because it's not like a certain author of a certain fanfic _detests pumpkin with every fibre of her being cause it makes her physically retch_ has any impact on Harry Potter's sudden but understandable hatred of the _evil vile pumpkin. _It was added to his book of 'Vegetables and Fruits I hate.' (Because sometimes you're not sure if it's a fruit or a vegetable so he just added them together.)

So the sweet scent was sort of ruined by the pumpkin juice but Harry wouldn't tell Hermione that cause that was just silly. She'd start raving on about third world problems and how the children didn't even get to drink water, let alone pumpkin juice.

Well, what about first world problems? What about when he had to choose between his new firebolt or his sturdy, faithful but two years older one? What about that indecision and pain huh? What then?

Huh? Huh?

"I was thinking about The War," both Hermione and Ron shuddered, still broken, hurt and Ron sometimes swore he could hear Fred's laughter. "And I went to leave but he got in my way, and he wouldn't look at me so I got angry."

Which was sort of true, sort of. Harry wouldn't tell them, that yes, he had started off depressed and missing all the dead people but then he'd remembered Malfoy and how he'd saved him and then he remembered sixth year and how sexy he'd looked, crying over the sink in Myrtle's bathroom that he'd gotten hard and had to leave. Which was sort of sadistic of him to like the sight of Malfoy crying but we've already accepted that Harry's a little bit off-kilter. Why do you think him and Dumbly Dores go along so well? (Have you seen Dumble Dores doing his flamingo dancing? He even turned his beard pink to match.)

And then Draco, Malfoy, had knocked into him, refused to apologize or even respond when Harry asked if was okay and he'd snapped. He'd snapped because the boy had been ignoring him for the five months since The War had ended and their rivalry had been a big part of his life for so many years that he didn't know how to deal with this.

He hung out with Ginny but he and Ginny were still trying to cope with the after effects that they couldn't quite support each other, not the way Ron and Hermione did.

He loved her, he really did, just as she loved him. But he'd gotten hard, over Draco Malfoy (again) and it was really starting to piss him off.

Really.

Because he was so not gay. He was straight. Well, maybe bi-sexual. Or maybe he was just a horn-dog and those younger years where he'd received no affection had made him a hungry, hungry, emotionally-charged, skin-ship wanting whore.

He didn't like thinking of himself as a whore.

Dark red lipstick just didn't suit him. He tried it when he imagined himself as Dumbledore's exotic/flamingo dancer. It didn't work with the pink.

Ron scrambled over, placed a hand on Harry's knee and then hugged both of them, clearing his throat awkwardly. He let go after a few seconds and clapped his hands together.

"Well then, we're all good so can we go back to dinner now?"

Hermione let go of Harry, smacked Ronald over the head and started scolding him for breaking the moment and always being hungry.

It made Harry a little hard but he glared at his pants, threatening to think of Snape in a flamingo dancer outfit and it automatically shrivelled up in fear, crying that its master was so cruel. It made Harry feel like a boss, which he was.

Level up.

He really needed to get away from the flamingo dancing images.

"Is everyone okay?" Lavender Brown asked, biting her lip as she watched the Golden Trio bask in their awesomeness (well she'd just turned up out of nowhere and ninja-sneaked into Tower –Lavender doesn't want to talk about stalker-girl who was currently licking the floor.) Ron balked, still afraid of her, Hermione smiled sweetly (which was more like a smug sneer) and Harry waved like a little kid.

"Everything's good, Harry just got hard."

"What?" Harry screeched and everyone glanced at him like he was, well, Harry in weird mode.

"I said, you were just having a hard time," Hermione said slowly. "Dealing with everything."

"Oh, okay."

Lavender Brown twirled her hair in her hands, popped the chewing gum in her mouth (that totally wasn't there five seconds ago) and spun on her toes.

"Well, like okay. Everyone just wanted me to see if Harry-warry was okie-dokie," she said in sing-song voice, oblivious to Harry's twitch at his nickname. She skipped out, humming the theme song for the muggles show called 'Parry Hotter and that Dickface Voldy.' It was quite catchy.

So Lavender left but then Ron started whistling that theme song which was horrible cause it had been stuck in everyone's minds since Lavender had started humming it a month ago so Hermione smacked Ron again and then they proceeded to snog.

Harry didn't look away because there was nothing else interesting in the room and they weren't really hiding it.

And then the fire popped and a familiar face broke though.

Harry gasped, his throat dry and Ron and Hermione stopped snogging (Ron taking his hand away from Hermione's hair which seemed to have wrapped itself around his wrist, almost like a manacle and wouldn't Hermione make a good dom?)

"T-this isn't –"

"Possible," Hermione finished to Harry's stuttered words.

And Sirius' fire-face just grinned at them.

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><p>To Funny ha ha: Glad you like the first chapter and glad to know other people talk in the retarded way I sometimes do as well.<p>

SoHardICried: Yay! You laughed out loud :D I hope you weren't on a train or something cause people look at you funny when you start crylaughing. And you've quoted your fav lines at me! That makes me so happy and I'm happy you get the humour. I feel like it's easy to get but I've been told that my mind is very different and sometimes others just aren't on the same level. Hope you liked this chapter.

Sandy: Oh, I trolled that troll back so hard that they cancelled private messages. It wasn't mean per say but it's one of the most enjoyable responses I've written. Glad that you liked the first chapter and love that you read other's reviews. I thought I was the only one who did that.


	3. A sign of sexual frustration

Last names are a sign of sexual frustration

You know, calling someone Potter creates emotional distance.

Draco had needed that emotional distance, because when he'd first met Harry (and yes, he recognises he'd been an ass but he'd been 11 and his father had brought him up to act like that) he'd been rejected and he'd needed the emotional distance.

Draco didn't deal well with rejection.

It was one of the multiple reasons he'd actually become a death eater, not just because of fear for his family or pressure or terror at going against the Dark Lord, but because his father would reject him if he turned coward and ran (although Draco did recognise he couldn't turn coward if he already was one.)

Which was horrible because Draco will, would, had done anything for his family but he didn't think they'd do the same. Maybe his mother, but definitely not his father.

And he'd been proved right after all.

His mother had saved Potter, stupid bloody-Gryffindor Potter who wore his anger like a comfortable hand-knit sweater and who'd _saved him._

Emotional distance helped one think logically, rationally.

Draco owed Potter a life-debt, no matter what the git had said. They weren't even, never would be. Potter was stupid freakin Potter and he'd reached out his hand and held Draco's life in the palm of it.

Emotional distance was meant to ease the guilt and pain when he looked at scar-head.

Draco swallowed.

He felt bad thinking of him as scar-head and he hated that, he'd never had a problem with it before. But before, he'd been a prat, even he could admit it. And this old prat needed his emotional distance.

Rejection, he still didn't deal well with it, but it wasn't that important now because Draco would just never try, never have any expectations, never care. Crabbe was dead (stupid, stupid, he'd told him not to kill Harry, he should've _just listened_) and if he was his father, he wouldn't care. Why would you care when lackey's died? Anyone less than pureblood or any not smart enough to play the game and twist the machinations to their benefit, they didn't deserve to be cared for.

Gods, he missed him. Even though he'd been so stupid.

Draco drew his cloak around him and thought that maybe he should start pretending to pay attention to the teacher. Then he remembered that it was Professor Binns and that the only person who paid attention was Granger.

Ronald Weasley stumbled into the room, fifteen minutes late with the bottom of his trousers all wet. Binns did not notice and Draco took this as an opportunity to have his eyes follow to where Weasley sat down next to a smiling Potter and frowning Granger.

He distinctly heard something about "predatory chamber pots."

Draco tried to ignore the memory of Dumbledore mentioning predatory chamber pots in his second year, because that would mean the Head Master had been telling the truth, and, unlike everyone else, Draco had realised that Dumbledore was, in fact, a giant troll.

And that he lied 99% of the time.

Honestly, the whole prophecy about Harry (which Draco still didn't fully know because the stupid golden trio refused to disclose anything because they liked lording it over the rest of the population) was probably made up with Dumbledore drinking too much butterbeer with old, fat Slughorn.

'_Oh, wouldn't it be funny if Harry Potter, you, know, the kid Lily and James are gonna have, like totes was going to kill Voldy. Wouldn't that be funny? You know, that a tiny little baby is going to kick no-nose's ass.'_

'_I say Dumbledore, that is a funny thought. Although, I really think this game of got your nose has gone on too long with old Tom. He's determined to kill you so you give it back. He truly believes you stole his nose.'_

'_Bitch shouldn't have touched my flamingo outfit.'_

Binns droned on and Draco tried not to curse him. Unforgivable curses had left a bad taste in his mouth and a seal on his wand. He was lucky he hadn't been thrown in Azkaban.

Though that was because of Potter, again, another debt.

Time passed, class was nearly over.

And then the wall broke under the weight of sixth year fangirls that had been pressed up against it. Draco jumped to his feet, cloak all a fluttering but out of his way and some non-existent wind sweeping his hair across the planes of his cheeks.

Draco shook his head cause it was annoying and sort of blinding him and Granger squealed, lost under the clamouring fangirls and Ha-Potter, trying to save her, could only watch as Weasley screamed "leave her, they'll pass over her soon enough mate. Just go, I'll defend you!"

Prat, letting his girlfriend be killed by the rabid zombies like that.

"Goyle, hide in that cupboard."

Goyle hid in the cupboard, his heavy frame squeezing into the tight space even though he had to kick Susan Bones from trying to clamour in there too. Unlike Crabbe, Goyle still listened to him after their time apart.

Binns was still talking, ignoring/or not noticing, the breaking desks and the shrieks and spells cast as more eighth year students were lost under the clawing, snarling fangs of the fangirls (and a few fanboys in there too, most wearing long red wigs since it seemed to be the rage to copy the Ginny Weasley look.)

Potter, experienced with years of Dark Arts training and fighting off the Darkest Lord known to wizards, promptly screamed and dashed from the room, leaving Weasley to fend for himself.

Draco would not admit he put up a good fight, because he was too busy chasing after Potter, making sure to ward the door shut behind him. It hurt him to have to sacrifice the others inside, namely Goyle. But, alas.

This was for the good of the whole of Hogwarts, sacrifices were needed to be made.

And so Draco chased after Potter.

Not because he wanted to save him or help him or be the bloody-damned hero saving the damsel for once (Ha-Potter, in a dress, hands clenched to his chest and lower lip trembling) but because Potter would be heading to safety (unless he turned back to his friends, which in most cases he would do, but by running away he was also leading the fangirls away.)

Yeah. Safety.

That was totally it.

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><p>"We're all going to die."<p>

Dumbledore calmly sipped more of his tea, twirling the tiny umbrella round and round with his forked tongue. Why was it forked you asked?

Because he's freakin Dumbledore okay. And he felt particularly like hissing his words today. It had unnerved all of the staff but Snape and Mcgonnagal, and they didn't really count.

Harry ran up to him, hands in the air like he just don't care except he did. Dumbledore smiled, already hearing the roar of the sixth year fangirls (he'd have to do something about that, one day, when it stopped being funny.)

He also sighted a one Draco Malfoy diving behind one of the tables in his room. Harry musn't have noticed the boy follow him up the stairs to his office.

Dumbledore placed his tea down and smiled enigmatically at the sweating, frantic saviour of the world.

"And why isss thatt Harrrry m'boy?" He hissed, tongue flicking around.

"The bleeding fangirls. Why didn't you just kick them out of the school? They are bloody insane and I fear Hermione and Ron might be dead, or worse," the poor boy seemed to come to a realisation. "Molested."

Ah, yes, he must've forgotten that the other two had their own obsessed stalkers as well, he'd probably thought he was saving them by being bait.

"I have to go back." Harry turned, ready to swoop in and save the day with Gryffindor zeal and bravery.

Dumbledore waved his hand and two blushing, half-naked Gryffindors appeared in the room.

"Hermione," Ron shouted and dove for the girl, who was red-cheeked under her bushy mane and holding her tattered shirt to her chest, a hint of pink bra peeking out. Dumbledore aimed his eyes at the sleek expanse of Ron's back, where a few claw marks were left (one suspiciously starting to take the words Laven-, it seems it wasn't just sixth years this time.)

What? He was gay peoples. And it was rude to stare at a young girl's body. And Ron's young flesh, mm, it was so appealing.

Dumbledore's forked tongue licked along his lips.

"Hermione, Ron," Harry called, turning from where he had set of so brazenly for the door and hugging his two flustered friends. Dumbledore saw Draco relax from his half-hidden spot and thought that really, he should've known.

Takes a boy-lover to recognise a boy-lover.

Dumbledore would have to match-make.

Harry, Hermione and Ron shivered, all huddled in a bunch and glanced up at Dumbledore's grinning, wizened face, the shine of his half-moon glasses making them all wince.

"Ah, Head Master . . .?" Hermione began and Harry just shook his head, recognising, fearing the look in his eyes.

Dumbledore laughed, and laughed loudly, his forked tongue stretched out and curling in the air. He raised his hands, like a master puppeteer and hissed.

The room shook and Hermione squeezed her fingers tight around Ron and Harry, not noticing that as she held them close she was also suffocating them with her breasts.

Ron smiled dreamily.

Harry was just trying to breathe.

And Dumbledore started to bump his hips to a beat that no one else could hear (because they weren't crazy. Or gay. Well, Harry swears he isn't and Hermione totally doesn't have the hots for Ginny. Ron would just get with anyone that would touch him.)

Draco watched them and wondered how on earth he could've been jealous of the meetings and favouritism the golden trio had always seemed to have with Dumbledore.

The man was batshit insane.

* * *

><p>James Potter, sitting beside his young wife on the grassy planes of heaven, with Sirius and the other people that died over a period of seven books but are too many to name, shivered.<p>

Remus wasn't there though, cause he was alive. For some unknown reason that had to do with Tonks and sacrificing and stuff. Tonks and Lily had totally bonded over that because this whole sacrificing yourself for the one you loved? Yeah, they had that down to an art form. Seriously, Lily's was so awesome that she helped her child defeat a Dark Lord.

The power of love baby. The power of love.

Tonks flew over to them, and popped herself off of her broom, shivering in the process and glancing around like a poppywart was trying to hide behind her shoulder.

"Something wrong?" Lily asked, breaking off her talk with Alice Longbottom (nice lady, little insane though and somewhat forgetful) who was absently patting the leg of her husband Frank.

Sirius whooped and called out to Alastor to "hurry up old man and grab the beater already."

Alastor, who wasn't as aged now that he was in heaven, picked up said beater and smacked a quaffle over to the shaggy-haired fiend.

"Nothing, just had a bad feeling that Dumbledore was up to something again."

Lily laughed, gently gave a chaste kiss to James lips that left him wanting for more and said, "I wouldn't be surprised, but Harry will be fine. I'm sure it isn't that bad. Dumbledore won't do anything to hurt Harry."

Now, Lily Potter hadn't seen the worst of Dumbledore and, though somewhat annoyed at Dumbledore for sending her son to his death, she had forgiven him because she thought that Dumbledore had known Harry would survive.

James hadn't, mainly because he believed Dumbledore had been making up the prophecy and his grand plan, all along the way.

He also knew that nothing Padfoot, Prongs, Moony and Wormtail had done had ever surprised or greatly impressed Dumbledore. And that was because Dumbledore was the biggest troll of all.

Look at how he'd survived his own death.

And so James Potter, basking in the rays of a purple sun (Tonks felt like that colour today and it was her turn to choose) was not quite feeling as calm as his wife was.

In fact, he was feeling quite worried. But then Frank offered him a plate of liquorice, cranberry, apple tarts and James forgot what he was feeling worried about.

It surely wasn't that important.

* * *

><p>Harry blinked like he remembered something, interrupting Dumbledore's cackling.<p>

"Oh, by the way, we just saw Sirius in a fire a couple hours ago so we were wondering if we could go to the department of Mysteries cause he said he's stuck behind the veil still."

Dumbledore stopped hissing, Granger muttered something about 'presenting the idea in more diplomatic way,' and Draco, hiding behind the table wondered how in Hogwarts, they had ever saved the world.

He'd been saying for years that they were all insane.

Why didn't anyone ever believe him?


End file.
